


Illya is sick

by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Whump, hurt!Illya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:39:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_Of_Dresden/pseuds/ClaraCivry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which I whump Illya in various ways. </p><p>Our favourite Russian is sick or injured, but thankfully he has the team to take care of him. Also in ff.net.</p><p>Chap 1. Illya is in a coma.</p><p>Chap 2. Hypothermia (fluffier with bonus cuddling for warmth)</p><p>Chap 3. Torture</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coma

He was so pale and unmoving, it hurt to even look at him. It had been a tough mission, and all three of them had finished quite banged up. Illya had seemed the one who was the least injured, only having received a blow to the head after falling. But of course, he could be deceitful – Illya always pretended he was okay, he was invulnerable. He took the blows and never complained, he took torture and things that no normal man could endure and just kept walking. But everyone had their limits.

It turned out that his head injury was worse than anticipated. Some hours later, while having a celebratory drink with Napoleon and Gaby in a hotel suite when he collapsed. All that tower of a man, falling to the floor. They waited for a couple minutes, hoping he was just exhausted and would wake up with some water and light tapping on his face. But that didn't happen. He never woke up.

Traumatic brain injury, the doctors were saying, inoperable, they were saying, there is too much scarred tissue. All their words seemed like undodgeable bullets, hitting them in the chest. It was a bad place to get hit, the doctors said, and without the proper inmediate medical care... There's nothing else we can do, they would say, we've stabilised him and are controlling his oxygen and blood pressure, but it is a precarious balance, they say. The longer he stays like that, the less chances he has of waking up again.

That's what they said. You should probably say goodbye.

Gaby had been angry at first. She had been angry with herself for not noticing, not forcing Illya to be checked by doctors like Napoleon and herself had been. Angry for not being able of protecting her partner like he had protected her so many times. It wasn't fair. Then she became angry with the men that put them in that situation. She made sure that the men who'd been put in jail had no access to deals, and got the worst conditions possible. Then she was angry at UNCLE, at Waverly and all the rest for always sending them to the worst missions, for not caring well enough about their top agent. And last of all, she was angry at Illya himself, for not saying anything, for not thinking of himself as much as he should, for collapsing like that. For scaring them.

But after a while, she realised how useless her anger was. It changed nothing whose blame it was, or what could have been done differently. Her being mad at him didn' change anything. He remained there, still, pale, unmoving. For days. And after some days absent, trying to punish whoever responsible, Gaby was at his bedside again, intertwining his big cold hand with her warm one. She was trying to hold back tears, and failing miserably.

The anger had left and had been replaced by an almost unbearable sadness. The truth of the situation hit her fully: almost certainly, Illya was going to die. He wouldn't his eyes again (those beautiful, beautiful eyes). They wouldn't hear his voice again (that beautiful, beautiful voice). He would never get old, their time together was spent. And there were so many things she hadn't said... so many moments that could have lead to something but were lost. So much time wasted in work. Now she would never get a chance to fix it.

"It can't be." Said a voice behind her. Solo. "This can't be the end of the great Illya Kuryakin. He'll wake, you'll see. I don't care what the doctors say. He's tougher than this."

While Gaby had gone through mostly anger and settled on melancholy, Napoleon had experienced denial, grief (briefly) and forced himself to hope. At first, he simply didn't believe it. Maybe it was an scheme from the heads of UNCLE to prove who-knows-what, or a plan from the KGB to test the team's loyalty to their agent. Who knew, maybe Illya was simply too tired and decided to rest. Something like that, some sort of trap, some sort of cover. Maybe a big bad was after him and he had to pretend he was dying to avoid any of his loved ones to be hurt (if Illya wasn't able to retaliate, there would be no point).

After a week he spoke to the doctors, and it was a huge mistake. Basically they told him that if hehadn't woken up by now, the chances of him doing it at all was pretty slim, almost non-existent. And so Napoleon realised the truth of the situation: he had lost his partner. He was going to die due to injuries received in the line of duty, possibly a death Kuryakin would had found worthy and fitting. A warrior's death. Well, so be it, he thought, I will miss him. He drank himself to oblivion that night and hoped this pain in his heart would pass. But it didn't.

It hurt too much, too much to even think. Illya didn't deserve this, he didn't deserve to die while the rest of them lived. Illya who'd had such a shitty life, who struggled with himself and his mind constantly, Illya with the bad childhood and the million scars, who after all the horrible things he'd gone through was still sweet and kind and caring – even had a bit of a sense of humor. He deserved the world, he deserved happiness and a million happy years. Not to waste away in a hospital and die from hurting his head on a bad fall. It couldn't be.

And Napoleon didn't want to lose the man – he'd become too important. Maybe the russian had gotten deeper under his skin, maybe Napoleon missed him when he was gone. He wasn't simply his partner, he was a good man, and a good friend. He was reliable, Napoleon knew that he could tell him anything, that he could ask fro almost anything and Illya would it for him. And to think that he could die... No. It couldn't be true. It wasn't going to be.

No matter what the doctors said, Illya was still alive, and while he was alive there was room for hope. He could still surprise everyone and wake up, and be back to normal in some months. Yes, that was what going to happen. The doctors wouldn't believe it, but when was anything Peril did believable? Tearing apart a car with his hands, throwing a motorbike at the enemy, how was that believable? It wasn't, and yet it had happened.

But Gaby was there, and she was holding Illya's lifeless hand, and she was crying silently and somehow it made everything more real. They were both going to lose an important part of their lives – never to be the same. The team would probably disappear if Illya died. Maybe they'd tried to continue, with some replacement, but it wouldn't be the same, and the memories would become too much. Napoleon and Gaby would go their separate lives, try to get over the loss, tried to forget, or at least, be okay with it.

But Napoleon didn't want to be okay with it. Neither did Gaby. The only thing they wanted was to have their Russian back, and never have to see him like this again. They kept going to hospital room, talking to him, playing games, watching and commenting tv. Waverly had asked them to come to work and although it logical and maybe healthy (a distraction from Illya's condition could be good) they both refused. Not until Illya gets better, they would, not until then.

This went on for 48 days. On the 49th, a pair of blue eyes opened again, against all odds.

The first they saw were two sets of inexplicably happy faces, blue eyes, brown eyes. Someone was hugging him and crying and saying his name with so much love. He was too tired to keep awake, but promised to wake up again soon. He had way too much to live for.

And so he did.


	2. Hypothermia

It was just Illya's luck that the fight had been on a restaurant. A restaurant that had a walk-in freezer. One in which in he was currently trapped, with one ankle broken and a nasty blow to the head. He should have been more prepared, he never should have let those people knock him out like that. Hell, generally, when criminals hit him in the head (if they could reach it, which they normally couldn't) he kept going without any problem. He was a big strong man, and it took a lot of strength to do some important damage to him. They usually didn't.

But there had been too many people, and he'd been trying to get the briefcase, focused on that, and inadvertently gave Mogliani's men an davantage by not paying full attention to them. Also there had been the little matter of his sprained ankle that had made everything difficult (but he'd learned to keep fighting until the mission was complete if the injury was minor so he'd kept at it, until he finally got the briefcase). So there had been a bottle on the back of his head that had thrown him off balance and then another man hit him with something blunt (a pan maybe? They had been in the kitchen back then) and as much as Illya had tried to hold onto consciousness, it had been impossible, and he'd fell on the kitchen, managing to break the injured ankle in his fall.

When he woke up, it was freezing, and he didn't know where he was. Slowly, too slowly, he saw the food and the shelves and recognised the place as the freezer where they kept the meat and those things. He tried to stand and realised that his ankle was in agony – still, he made his way to the door, and found it, to his horror, locked. He tried to open it, but his strength was not what it had been that morning. There was not a sound on the outside: of course, it had been already almost midnight when he came in, now there was probably nobody there – and there wouldn't be anyone else until the next morning.

Illya wondered why they hadn't simply killed him when he was unconscious. Maybe they were afraid he'd wake up while they were at it. Maybe they needed his boss' permission. Maybe they didn't have the heart because they were just underlings. Who knew. Illya tried to break the door with his hands, and only managed to hurt his hand. _It's a metal door. What were you expecting._ He went to the hinges and got nothing. He was an uncoordinated mess and had to keep reminding himself of where he was. The cold was getting to his head. Illya knew he had to act now, before the cold made him even less functional. But all his attempts at escaping prove useless and he was shivering, and it was distracting.

He tried to be hopeful, but things were looking quite bad. The shivers were diminishing until they stopped, his body giving up on trying to produce heat. He couldn't get out, and there was little to no chance that his team mates would think of looking in the freezer before the cold stopped his heart. Feeling with less and less energy, Illya made a last attempt and just on the room and turned himself into a ball, trying to preserve the little heat he still maintained. He was strangely dizzy, and he could feel his breath becoming more shallow, his heart beat becoming slower, his eyes closing.

Trying to find some warmth, his last thoughts before losing consciousness were of Gaby.

* * *

 

Gaby who was in a nearby room, trying to find out what had happened to their partner. He hadn't answered to any attempt at contact in the last six hours, and his tracker indicated he was nearby, in that desserted restaurant. The only problem was that they had gone through the restaurant twice, hadn't seen him anywhere. He had to be here – Solo had planted a tiny tracker in his watch, and that man never went anywhere without it. But what if they had taken it from him?

“Gaby!” The american called.

He had found something in the kitchen, where they had seen signs of struggle. It was something almost imperceptible, a slight (obviously cleaned) pattern on the tile floor, as if something very heavy had been moved. Ironically, it was the cleaning of the workers, the trying to erase the evidence the biggest evidence. It was a trail that led them... to the freezer.

There was a moment of pause while the two sipes processed the information. Then there was a moment of realisation, a panicked look shared between the two, and both of them frantically trying to find a way to open the freezer. It couldn't be, right? But they opened the freezer, and there he was, Illya (their Illya), cold as death, in the middle of the room.

“We have to get him out of the cold.” Solo said, not even bothering to check for a pulse.

When they  were out, Gaby looked for vital signs while Solo called in the situation and told Waverly and his agents to send a team as quickly as possible. There was a pulse and some breathing, but it was too faint, too slow, on the verge of there being nothing.

“He's so cold” Gaby said, not even trying to hide how scared she was. Illya was not just cold, but unmoving. What if they couldn't get him warm on time? What if his heart stopped completely?

“Skin on skin body heat is the best for this situations.Take off his clothes, they're too cold, and take off your clothes too, try to give him as much body heat as you can. I don't think there will be blankets here, but I'll gather as many tablecloths as I can and join you.”

“Hurry back.” Gaby said simply and starting ripping their partner of his icy clothes, all the time trying, as softly and gently as she could, to get him to awaken. He was like a ragdoll, simply letting her take off his clothes.

“I'm sorry.” She whispered. Illya had always been self-conscious about his body, despite how indisputably beautiful it was. Perhaps it was the scars. Perhaps it had something to do with his _“disturbed childhood”_ but this was something that needed to be done, and in a matter of seconds they were both in their underwear, tiny Gaby trying to warm up Illya's giant frame. He still didn't react, which made Gaby even more scared. Illya was so lifeless - she knew she would have nightmares about this. Fortunately, Solo came back soon after, and in moments it was the three of them in a ball of fancy tablecloths and naked flesh.

Illya came to after a while, but he was still disoriented and hardly coherent, muttering broken things in Russian about winter and home and punishment. Gaby looked at him, cuddling even closer together to the big man. He'd been inside that freezer for way too long.

Suddenly, Solo started giggling.

“This is funny to you?” Gaby asked.

“It's after midnight” Solo said, looking at his German friend and the still cold Russian sandwiched between them. “It's our anniversary. This marks one year since the day I went to your chop shop and this gentleman followed us through half the city. Who would have thought back then, that we would eventually care so much about this guy that we'd find ourselves in the floor of a restaurant, almost naked and covered in tablecloths. Your anniversary gift to us, Peril, should be getting warmer and tell us who put you in there to die a Captain America death.”

There was some blinking, and the blue eyes seemed more focused.

“Ga...gaby?”

“Yes, yes, it's me.”

“Why is it so cold?”

“You were locked in a freezer. You don't remember?”

Illya was trying to remember, but the cold that had seeped into his bones and apparently inot his very soul was making it hard to think. The closeness of his team mates was comforting, nice, although a bit... unorthodox.

“I have another question.”

“Shoot away, ice man.” Solo replied.

“Why is your hand on my ass?”

“I'm sorry. No I'm not. It's a medicinal thing. Science.”

“You know what, I will let you keep it there, you too Gaby, if you want. Happy anniversary.”


	3. Torture (50 hours)

Napoleon and Gaby didn't know exactly what they did to him, but it was bad. So bad, in fact, that the Doctors didn't feel like they could give that information to anyone who was not family. Even if they did tell them that Illya didn't have any reliatives alive anymore, and that they ware as close to family as it could get. Maybe it was better if they didn't know. 

Napoleon remembered perfectly the moment when they found him. It was horrible, and part of him was convinced that they were already too late. Because no one alive could look that bad, could it? A dirty mess of blood, spit and other unidentified fluids, all in a lifeless limp figure that somehow resembled a man. They had him over two days surely it was long enough to try and get information and kill him when he didn't cooperate. He wasn't dead, but no for lack of trying. All his fingers were broken, and there was horizontal bruises on his neck as if he'd been strangled with some sort of rope. There were chemical burns on his forearms too and weird circular bruises surrounding his eyes. His chest was exposed as well, a mess of cuts, bruises, burns and dried blood. They had tried everything to get him to talk. 

Illya. Poor soul. 

Why did you take it all? You should have spoken, damn it, you should have sold us all out. 

But of course he didn't. They had Illya for fifty hours, fifty hours in which they broke him in every manner the knew possible. Napoleon knew, despite the Doctors not having wanted him to see the file (but he was a spy, for god's sakes, and spy before that, he had his ways) that they had burned him, drowned him and electrocuted him as well. That there was still water in his lungs, and early onset of pneumonia. There were eighteen bones broken, and three bruised ribs. They tried water, and electricity and acid, and still Illya wouldn't talk. Probably didn't even say a single word. 

Napoleon knew that he would have ended talking. He would have lasted four, five hours, maybe even six but in the end his head would have gotten all muddled and did himself a favour to end everything. He remembered how he felt in uncle Rudy's chair, the fear, the horror of what was going to come, the pain of the shocks, the knowledge that it would last for sooo long. It was horrible. The fear of death. 

But Illya had never spoken, and so they couldn't kill him. Napoleon went to the chair he¡d been tied to, almost without registering it, and looked for a pulse. And no matter how dead the russian had looked, he'd been alive. And the one eye that wasn't swollen shut had looked at him, and maybe it Solo's imagination, but he could he saw relief in that eye before it rolled back in his head. And so Solo took the man in his arms and ran to where he knew the medical team was stationed. He didn't look back, he didn't stop. Gaby was just beside him, running as well. Screw the mission, screw the men who'd done this. In that moment, the only thing that mattered was Illya. 

That someone took all those broken pieces and tried to make him whole again. Because there would have to be a lot of work for not just Illya, but the three of them to be even remotely sane again. Those fifty hours had nearly broken Gaby as well, and Napoleon had seen a dark side of her he didn't know existed. 

The doctor's were both hopeful and surprised, seeing how well he was responding and how quickly he seemed to behealing, despite the enormous amount of damage he sustained. They still had to spend hours treating his wounds and plastering practically all his wounds, but he didn't seem to mind too much and took all the pills and let the doctors do their job. He woke up many times on the next days and was a bit shaken but mostly grateful for being saved. He was affected but not as any other person in his situation would have been. Maybe because it wasn't the first time he was tortured. 

Maybe it was all an act. Illya wasn't one to show weakness, show pain, even with people he trusted like the two of them. Maybe he didn't want to accept the extent of what happened. Maybe he was trying to downplay it for them, so it wasn't so hard on them. They knew it had affected Gaby a lot – those fifty hours and their aftermath.

Illya became even closer to the german after being rescued, consequences be damned. He spoke to Gaby, hugged her, even kissed a couple of times when his cut parched lips allowed it. It was clear that there was no time to lose, and at least, while Illya was recovering they wouldn't be assigned missions os they could have some time to themselves. There were many things he was too hurt to do, but many others that he could. So they cuddled, they told each other stories of when they were kids. Gaby liked to caress his face, as if he were going to run out, disappear. She liked to make sure he was really there. 

She was also there when they had to reset a bone, or do some rehabilitation, or drain something. On the bad, ugly parts where Illya couldn't help but scream because the pain was just too much. Napoleon wondered how many times did those bastards make Illya scream like that while they had him captive. It was a horrifying thought. Peril was supposed to be near indestructible.

Some nights (most nights) Illya had nightmares, sometimes even full blown night terrors, and Gaby or Napoleon had to take him out of it, calm him down. Sometimes, Gaby dreamed they arrived too late and too late and couldn't calm down until she felt his heartbeat. Other times Illya thought himself back with his torturers, and tried to escape from where he was, upsetting the injuries on his legs even further. 

Napoleon had nightmares too - he couldn't believe how much this had affected him. He didn't dream that Illya died, no. He dreamt that they abandoned him, and he was tortured forever. Sometimes it started out as himself being on the hands of those people, and Illya and Gaby abandoning him. Other times Illya was there, broken, and they did nothing. 

One night the dream was so vivid that Napoleon climbed behind the Russian on the hospital bed, hoping for some comfort. 

"Why are you crying?" Said his partner sleepy voice, in Russian. 

Great, he'd woke up and worried the convalescing patient. Good work, Solo. And when had he started crying? He hadn't even noticed the tears on his cheeks. Napoleon wasn't a man that cried   
much, he fixed the things that made him sad, or played it cool. But he was crying now, although silently. But clearly not silently enough.

"I'm crying for you, idiot Russian. For all the horrors you've gone through. It's not fair."

"It's going to be okay." Illya said, still half asleep and positioning himself to sleep again. "I'll be close by."

And somehow that made everything a bit more okay, a bit more bearable.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is love!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Prompts welcome :)


End file.
